


Tawse

by morganya



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-25
Updated: 2009-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-20 07:07:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/morganya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They like to push the limits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tawse

In the Tenderloin, with hours to kill before soundcheck, Gabe finds the sex shop. It's one of the sex shops with upscale pretensions, dark windows and a hard to read gilded sign; Pete always found those things to be a waste of time. Gabe immediately starts heading in, and Pete scoffs.

"What's with the judging, bro?"

"You can fuckin' get porn in ten thousand places other than here," Pete says. "I can smell the fuckin' patchouli from here, dude."

"You telling me you _don't_ want to find something to traumatize your band?" Gabe says. "I bet there's all kinds of freaky shit in here."

"My band has fuckin' seen everything from me," Pete says, but follows Gabe inside anyway.

Inside is just what he expects; a wall of shiny vibrators and dildos in vacuum-sealed plastic, butt plugs in various shapes and sizes, DVDs with fancy lettering and soft-focus covers. He picks up something called the Rump, an oddly curved and almost pretty piece of opalescent silicone, and tries to figure out its purpose.

"I think this is some sort of cuff," he says loudly to Gabe and shakes the package. Then he looks up and Gabe is nowhere to be seen. Trust him to get distracted by something shiny and leave Pete to his own devices. He puts the whatever-it-is back on the rack and goes to find him.

The back of the store smells like leather and oil; Gabe is rifling through what looks like an oversized sandbox. "You ditched me, asshole," Pete says.

"Did not," Gabe says. He pulls a coiled length of leather out of the bin and shakes it at Pete. The ends of it wave like a swimming octopus. "Look at all the cool shit they've got back here."

"I didn't know that was your thing," Pete says. He looks at the whip; if he had a hat he could totally grab it and pretend to be Indiana Jones.

"Marquis de Sade trip," Gabe says noncommittally. "I don't know, I don't think it's that great." He tosses the whip back into the bin. "Hey, look at this." He pulls out something that looks like a tiny oar with a groove cut halfway down the middle and swishes it through the air. It whistles gently.

"That's a Lochgelly tawse replica," the sales clerk says from behind Gabe. He snuck up without either of them noticing, probably smelling easy money. "Imported leather. Very hard-wearing."

"Lock gully what?' Gabe says.

"Lochgelly tawse. For maintaining classroom discipline."

"Yeah?" Gabe says. He gives Pete a sidelong look. "Mr. Wentz, you've been a bad, _bad_ boy." He takes a swing at Pete's hip.

"Dude, fuckin' school is hard enough without you hauling that thing out," Pete says. "Your roleplay needs some thought."

"You're holding it the wrong way," the clerk says to Gabe, apparently having given Pete up as a lost cause. "It's meant to be swung downward? From behind the shoulder?"

"Oh," Gabe says. "Like -?" He tries again. The strap crackles.

"Like that," says the clerk. "It's good for short sessions, nothing too drawn out. It's a little intense."

"Huh," Gabe says. "So, you just use this for ass smacking?"

The clerk shrugs. "The ass, the hand –"

"Huh," Gabe says. He taps the strap against his palm.

"Dude, are you seriously thinking about getting that?" Pete says.

"The next time you piss me off, I'm beating your ass," Gabe says.

"Yeah, out behind your _woodshed_ ," Pete says.

"Very hard-wearing," the clerk says hopefully.

"What the hell," Gabe says and pulls out his wallet. Pete wanders off to see if there's anything he can buy that will nauseate Trohman later on.

Gabe is grousing about how much his little sex toy cost when he comes away from the register. "I haggled him down, but still, that was fuckin' sixty bucks. These assholes are robber barons."

"Hey, you wanted the thing," Pete says. "You want a quality spanking session, you've got to shell out."

"You know he thought we were together."

"What?"

"He thought you were totally my bitch, man. He goes to me, 'Would he enjoy something on the lighter side?' I was like, 'Nah, he'll come around.'"

"Oh, thanks a lot," Pete says. "Now some guy thinks you're totally pulling a _Pulp Fiction_ number on me every night. You could at least have said that we switch."

"Just didn't seem like the right time."

"You're a jerk. Just because you think it's fun to beat the crap out of everyone –"

Gabe puts his sunglasses on and lightly swings his bag against Pete's side. "Who said I was the one doing the beating?"

"You did."

"Don't believe everything you hear," Gabe says.

Pete doesn't think any more about it until the next time he's in New York. He goes over to Gabe's place to have dinner and use Gabe's Playstation 2 and take a general break from his life. Gabe sounds distracted on the phone but doesn't say no to letting him in. He orders pizza and then apropos of nothing says, "I won't ask what happened with Jeanae this time if you don't ask what happened with my girl," which is fine with Pete.

He would have expected Gabe to want to go out on the town, drag Pete out to one of those stupid hipster clubs he's so devoted to, but Gabe seems perfectly fine with staying in and being an asshole. By the time they start playing _Time Splitters_ , Pete's heard all about the reasons why he should leave his record label, write songs differently, and dress better so that people believe that he's sexy. Gabe has a way of sounding like a cross between one of Pete's more pompous college professors and a spectacularly annoying little brother.

"Don't shoot that guy, you're not supposed to kill him," Gabe says, watching Pete's little character dash across the TV screen.

"You're supposed to kill _all_ of them," Pete says.

"What the fuck, you can't just run around shooting at random."

"Hey, keep your eyes on your own guy and don't worry about what I'm doing," Pete says.

"You're totally fucking this up."

"Yeah, who was the one whose ass I had to save earlier?"

"Oh, whatever, dude."

"Just because you don't know how to play your own fuckin' game –"

Gabe leans over and slaps his elbow, and Pete's shot goes wide. "You _motherfucker_ ," Pete says, losing his temper. He throws the controller down and jumps up, hands balled into fists.

Gabe looks up at him. "What are you going to do, Pete, take me over your knee? Huh?"

Something in his voice swings Pete from pissed off to just confused. He pulls at his hair.

"C'mon," Gabe says. "I've been being an asshole all night, you can't tell me you haven't thought about it."

"I'm not your girlfriend, man," Pete says finally. "I didn't come over just so I could get into some sex thing with you."

"It's not a sex thing!" Gabe says. "It's just, like, an experiment. Remember that thing I got in San Francisco a while back, with you? The strap?"

"That's something you should really ask your girlfriend," Pete says.

"I did," Gabe mumbles. "We tried it out a couple times. She wasn't into it."

"So it is a sex thing."

"No! It's just…c'mon, Pete, you know all about fuckin' expanding your boundaries. I thought you were into that."

"How's me smacking your ass going to expand _anything_?"

"Just curious," Gabe says. "I gotta find out how much I can take, you know?"

"Why the fuck should I do what you want, anyway?" Pete says. "You've been pushing my buttons all night."

"Makes it easier to do, right?" Gabe says. "C'mon. You've got, like, total clearance. You can fuckin' tell everyone the next time I piss you off about the time you beat my ass like I was two years old. Leverage, dude."

"I don't fuckin' tell my friends' secrets."

"It's not a secret."

"So why haven't I heard about this before?"

"Hey, people think they can take advantage of you if they know you're into that shit," Gabe says. "Can't go around broadcasting it all the time."

Pete's not sure if Gabe notices his own contradictions. He doesn't say anything, though.

"C'mon," Gabe says again. "I gotta know, dude. I just gotta know."

In a way, Pete thinks, it's not all that different from the shit he's pulled with Chris or with Dirty. He's always been kind of fascinated himself with pushing the envelope, and he wishes Gabe didn't think he had to deliberately piss him off just to get him to agree.

"Yeah, okay," he says. "Show me what you've got."

Gabe turns off the game. "Let me go and find it."

The strap isn't particularly heavy, but it's thick, and it takes him a minute to figure out how to hold it. Gabe pauses from unzipping his jeans and says, "Wrong end, man."

"Dude, you're actually going to take your pants off?"

"I'm not going to feel a fucking thing with my clothes on. Don't act like you've never seen my cock before." Gabe carefully folds up his jeans and lays them on the back of the couch.

"Fine, do it bare-assed, whatever," Pete says. Gabe shrugs and pulls his underwear off.

Pete's never really gotten over how fucking weird-looking cocks are. "You look like you've got a rubber toilet brush between your legs," he says.

"Fuck you, it looks awesome," Gabe says. "Come _on_ , I've got shit to do, let's get this over with."

"Hey, I'm the guy holding the strap," Pete says. "I'm going to take all night if I want. You sure you can take this?"

"That's what I'm going to find out." Gabe turns around and braces his elbows against the back of the couch. "Hey, you need to promise to stop when I say stop. I don't want you to have to explain to my dad that I died on your watch."

"I'm sure your dad would _love_ me to explain how you wound up dead in your apartment with your pants off," Pete says. "So, when you decide you've expanded your horizons enough, you'll just –"

"I'll say, 'ow, fuckin' stop,'" Gabe says. "That clear enough?"

"Pretty much," Pete says. He takes a practice swing; the leather slides against his palm. Gabe's legs are like three miles long and Pete's not entirely sure about where to aim this thing.

"Do it, fucker," Gabe says, sounding frantic.

Pete swings again, and connects. The leather edge of the strap digs into his hand and he hears the slap against Gabe's skinny ass. Gabe flinches and hisses, then twists his head around and snaps, "You're not _doing_ it right."

"I fuckin' _hit_ you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but you can't swing it like a goddamn baseball bat. From fuckin' behind your shoulder and _downward_ , asshole."

"Why don't you just do it your-fucking-self, then," Pete snaps. "Jesus Christ, all I'm getting is backtalk."

"Just do it right next time."

"Fuck you," Pete says, and swings. The tails of the strap crack when they hit, and he sees the blood rising to the skin. Gabe tenses but says, "If I wanted a kiss I'd have called you mommy."

"Dude, shut the fuck up," Pete says. He makes sure to put his shoulder into the next swing and watches Gabe's cheeks shudder. He can see marks already forming across Gabe's ass in a faint pink line. Gabe grunts but doesn't say anything.

"How's that? Had enough?"

"Not even close," Gabe says through his teeth. He doesn't bother to turn around this time. His arms are rigid against the back of the couch.

"I should be filming this," Pete says. "Stick it on the internet." He swings and hears the slap of leather. Gabe's leg jerks back and he sucks his breath in. Pete can guess that he's biting his lip, squeezing his eyes shut.

" _Release the Bats 2: The Gabe Saporta Edition_ ," Pete says. "I'd sell a million copies." Gabe's ass is more red than pink now.

"You're not getting any money out of me," Gabe says. He lets go of the couch and buries his head in his arms.

"Cheap-o." Pete smacks him again. His shoulder is beginning to ache. Gabe lets out a breath, or tries to, but it sounds more like a moan. It doesn't sound like, "Fuck, this hurts," or "Fuck, I shouldn't have done this," it sounds like it starts deep in his throat and then comes out smooth.

"I thought you said this wasn't a sex thing," Pete says.

"It's not!"

"Bullshit. You're getting turned on. I can tell."

"In your dreams." Gabe takes advantage of the pause to press his forehead into his palm, wiping away the sweat.

"You'd fucking whack off right here if you thought you could," Pete says. "What kind of kinky stuff are you into that you haven't told me about?" This time around, the strap catches Gabe across the top of his legs. He actually cries out then, a harsh, "Uhh," that he then tries to cover up with a cough.

"God, you've got to try to control this, too?" Pete says. "Where's the boundary pushing? What are you trying to prove?"

"Nothing," Gabe says hoarsely. "Your aim sucks."

"Your ass says different," Pete says, bringing the strap down. Gabe kicks his legs back, choking on his breath.

Pete doesn't know what he's gotten into. He and Gabe have always been too much alike, too willing to stay up looking for monsters in their own heads, and he should have known this was going to take him farther than he wanted to go. His shoulder hurts. He swings a little harder to make up for it.

Gabe says, almost sobbing, "Okay, okay, that's enough, stop, okay," and buries his face in the crook of his arm. His breathing is ragged and his legs are shaking.

"All right," Pete says. He drops the strap. "All right, all right." He's soaked in sweat and he knows his back is going to be fucked up tomorrow. "Shit, man."

Gabe doesn't answer.

"I need some water. You need some water? I'm going to get some water."

Gabe still doesn't say anything. He keeps his head down, trying to get his breathing back under control, and Pete thinks that he's just not answering because he doesn't want his voice to shake, doesn't want Pete to hear.

"I'll be right back," Pete says and goes into the kitchen.

He drinks two glasses of water straight after the other and thinks, _Shit, fuck, shit, fuck, shit._ He's going to have to bum some Xanax off of Gabe in a couple minutes. He stays in the kitchen until he stops sweating and shaking and then goes back out.

Gabe is lying across the couch on his stomach. He pulled his shorts up but his jeans are still neatly folded against the couch. He looks up and says, "Thought you got lost."

"Your apartment's fuckin' huge." Pete hands him the glass of water and Gabe smiles gratefully, gulping at it. He motions at the cushion next to his head and Pete drops into it.

"I really thought I could handle more of that," Gabe says finally, sounding a little sulky. "I pussied out."

"Gotta know your limits."

Gabe grunts. "My ass is fucking sore as fuck, man. I'm not going to be able to sit for a week."

"I've got skills, what can I say?"

"Want to kiss it and make it better?"

"You get enough people kissing your ass as it is."

"Fuck you." Gabe props his head up on his arm. "I kind of do get off on this shit, you know. Not the pain, not the –"

"Yeah," Pete says. "Yeah, I get it."

"I kind of figured you'd be the one who'd really understand, you know. That you wouldn't –" He shrugs. "I knew you'd get it."

Pete reaches down and brushes the hair off Gabe's forehead without looking. "Yeah, I'm your guy."


End file.
